


The Patrician's Gift

by StaticRainstorms



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: (sort of?), Accidental Dad AU, Kid Fic, Vetinari's son, whoops you're a dad now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-03-17 11:08:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18964036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaticRainstorms/pseuds/StaticRainstorms
Summary: Almost 6 years ago, Lord Vetinari met an elegant, intelligent woman while on a diplomatic visit to Quirm. She had little interest in Ankhmorpork politics, yet still managed to impress him enough to actually get him in bed. Almost 6 years ago, they said goodbye to each other, both content to leave matters where they lay. Vetinari had returned and largely forgotten about the incident, while she had returned to her family, pleased to finally provide the heir they needed.Sadly, almost 6 years later, family politics and disinterest have deemed the child 'unnecessary'.So, Lord Vetinari is about to get a surprise gift.





	1. Chapter 1

Fog sulked over Ankh-Morpork like quilt, smothering sights and sounds alike as it begrudged its way through the late autumn day. In the streets, the wise stuck to the well lit and populous areas, while the opportunistic lurked in side alleys and dingy streets for the irredeemably stupid to amble through.

The Watch was usually busy on these sorts of days.

Its Commander, however, was trudging his way to the Oblong Office (having escaped the notice of his curricle drivers) and muttering under his breath in preparation for his meeting with the Patrician.

The palace was certainly busy, although that was not unusual, no matter the weather. Illuminated in the gloom, there was a great deal of bustling going on inside - clerks ferrying papers and documents, visitors pacing, guards on patrol - however still and stoic the exterior remained. The window of the great Oblong Office glowed in the dense mist, where the Patrician was no doubt at his desk, pulling strings and turning the cogs of the city via ink and paper.

Carriages were common in this part of town either, so no one took notice of a reasonably smart coach pulling up near the gates. One of the occupants inside let out a soft sigh as they looked up at the great dome looming through the clouds.

     "And to think, I had such hopes." They turned to the smaller figure, hunched around a large, square object on the opposite seat, and let out another sigh. The small figure seemed to shrink, as if weighed down by the very noise. "Ah well, we learn." The taller of the two reached into an inner pocket and drew out an envelope, which it held out to the other. "I have done all I can for you, my boy, and all I have ever asked in return is for this errand to be completed. Do you think you can manage?"

     "Yes ma’am." The small figure whispered.

     "Good." The envelope was waved, somewhat impatiently, before it was taken by small, thin fingers. Then the door was opened and the small figure shuffled out, pausing only to watch the carriage disappear into the fog.

***

The problem with the palace, Vimes thought sourly as he lurked next to a pillar to finish his cigar, was that there was always too much going on inside it. One of the problems, he corrected. Among the others were what those things were, how they were going on, and just who was doing them. He glared at a random clerk as they passed, only to be just as firmly ignored.

There was a tug on one of his trouser legs.

He glanced down.

A pair of large hazel-green eyes stared back.

     "Are you a watchman?" A voice, as small as the child it came from, asked.

 _What in the Gods is a kid doing here?_ Vimes thought, nodding dumbly.

     "Mother always said the Watch helps people." It wasn't framed as a question, but the doubt on the child's face was plain as day.

     "Yes." Vimes managed. The kid - boy, Vimes corrected, as he did a quick check over the child - was clutching a thick book, bound in green leather. "Yes, we do."

The boy nodded, still mildly unsure.

     "I have to deliver this to the Patrician." He showed Vimes an envelope. Thick parchment, the expensive kind, Vimes noted. The lettering was in swirly black ink, the handwriting of a nob no doubt, but when he reached out for it, the boy flinched back. "I'm - only to the Patrician, Mother said."

 _What kind of kid says Mother?_ Was the first thought that spun through Sam's head, before the rest narrowed in on the flinch. And the way the child curled in on himself, clutching the book like a lifeline.

Or a shield.

     "Alright." He said, slowly. "And where is your mother?"

The boy blinked up at Sam, Sam blinked back.

     "In town? I have to deliver this, sir. But I don't know where his office is."

Alone? In Ankh-Morpork? Alright, they were at the palace but still... Vimes stared around at the rush of robes and folders around them as if a woman would magically spring forth from the crowd and reclaim the kid next to him. When nothing happened, he squinted down at the too-small, too-thin child still gripping his trouser seam.

     "How old are you, lad?"

     "Five and one month, sir."

Vimes hummed.

     "I can take you to the Patrician, I'm heading that way myself." He told the boy, straightening from his slouch against the pillar and jamming his helmet back on his head. "Come on, then - what's your name, kid?"

The boy ducked his head and mumbled. Vimes tried not to sigh. One of those names, then. The sort you had to coax out of a child because even they knew it was bloody stupid. He quickly decided that he'd blame not hearing on the noise of the atrium and ask again when there were less potential witnesses around. He thanked whatever deity night be responsible that he was born to sensible parents who thought Robin was pushing it for a boy's name.

Vimes turned to face the throng of miscellaneous clerks and posh gits. He hesitated for a moment before holding out his hand.

He could've sworn the boy looked surprised before relief spread over his face, then Vimes felt frail little fingers wrap around his palm. He nodded at the boy before shouldering his way into the fray.

***

The Oblong Office was still and quiet aside from the scritch-scratch of pen on paper, or occasionally parchment, and the whisper of turned pages. On and off throughout the day, the rhythm was broken by Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician's secretary, rising to fetch or collect folders and move papers between desks. His own desk was a modest size, set to the right of the entrance doors and facing the opposite wall, which housed the fireplace (rarely used). Behind it, a series of small filing cabinets stood to attention next to a unobtrusive door to another room full of a near-obscene number of larger filing cabinets. Despite the reams of paperwork, the desk was clean and tidy, clearly divided into zones according to some unknown (to everyone who did not work in that room) order.

To the right of Drumknott's desk, at the end of a stretch of carpet, was the larger desk of Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Just as neat and concisely organised, but with more gravitas and certainly more hidden objects of varying degrees of sharpness, it faced the room with all the firmness of a full stop at the end of a sentence. Lord Vetinari worked with his back to the great windows of the Office, where the city was usually spread out in all its ambiguous glory to behold. Currently, it held the far more aesthetically pleasing view of varying degrees of grey fog.

Lord Vetinari placed a report on the current status of Lancre imports (low and very sheepy) on the Completed pile and selected a suitably unimportant letter to peruse during his meeting with the Commander of the Watch. He needed Sir Samuel only slightly riled at the end of the next fifteen minutes and divided concentration was usually a good method to ensure this. He heard Drumknott rise from his seat to usher the Commander in as he picked up his pen and prepared to correct the grammatical errors, pausing to allow them time to enter.

He raised his eyes at the longer than usual silence.

The doors at the end of the Office remained closed for a moment longer before they opened to reveal a startled and confused Drumknott, followed by a grim-faced Commander Vimes, followed by -

Vetinari raised an eyebrow at the sight of Sir Samuel Vimes pacing down the carpet towards him so as not to out-march the small child gripping his hand. He placed his pen down on the desk and clasped his hands on the letter in front of him.

     "Am I to assume this is a new Watch recruitment initiative, Commander Vimes?" He asked, turning his icy blue gaze on the man.

     "No, sir." Vimes grunted. "This one's here to see you."

That got him a look with both raised eyebrows, before the gaze turned, in all its force, on the boy.

He'd seemed slight when they were sat in the waiting room's uncomfortable wooden seats; now they were in the Office, the boy looked tiny. Dressed in dull clothes that were too long at the wrist and waist (and legs), curly black hair flopped about his ears, and eyes on the floor. The lad was gripping the book even tighter now, knuckles white against the green cover.

     "How may I help you, Mister... ?"

The boy didn't respond. Probably didn't recognise that he was the one being addressed, Vimes realised.

     "Said his name was Lindis, sir." Well, Lindis Michael Cavise the Third, Vimes though, extracting his hand from the child's grip and placing it on his shoulder.

Gods, he could feel nothing but bones beneath the shirt.

Still, he gave a comforting squeeze and pushed the kid forward as firmly as he dared. Lindis seemed to jerk awake, head snapping up as he realised he was supposed to be moving. He shuffled up to the front of the Patrician's desk and tugged the envelope from where he'd stowed it between the pages of his book. He had to stretch on tip-toe to hand over the letter and even then, he could barely reach halfway across.

 _Good thing the patrician has such a long reach_ , Vimes thought wryly.

Vetinari plucked the letter from Lindis' grip and looked over the address on the front. Then, he turned it over and studied the red seal closing it. He gave no sign of recognising the crest stamped into it, breaking it with a letter opener after only a moment and unfurling the letter.

Some part of Vimes' brain that came from lizards watching for danger at every moment began to twitch in alarm. The Commander began to notice that the atmosphere around the patrician was becoming colder, stiller, like a glacier beginning to form, although the man’s face betrayed nothing.

Eventually, the letter was laid down on the desk and Lord Vetinari clasped his hands in front of it. He didn’t look at the boy.

     “I see.” He started, then paused. “And your mother?”

     “She’s - she - she saw me off, sir.” Lindis mumbled at the floor.

The temperature seemed to drop further. Vimes shuffled, frowning at the scene in front of him.

     “Do you know what was in that letter, Lindis?” Vetinari, Vimes noticed with a start, was carefully moderating him voice. His tone was soft, almost gentle. With the boy looking back at his feet, there’d be no way for him to recognise the stillness that had Sam himself twitching.

Lindis shook his head. Vetinari hummed in thought.

     “What do you think the letter contained?”

There was a long pause. Finally, just as Vetinari seemed about to speak again, the little voice trembled out.

     “Mother said that I - I’m a disappointment. Mother has a new son now, so I’m ‘s-surplus to requirements’.” The lad clutched the book tighter. “You c-can turn useless things into useful things, so Mother said I was to come here.”

The Patrician raised his eyes to stare into the distance, mouth flat, seemingly carved from stone. Vimes found himself thinking of Young Sam and he felt his hands curl into fists. He couldn’t stop shaking.

What person - what _mother_ -

He was broken out of his thoughts by Lord Vetinari standing and moving to the front of the desk, next to Lindis.

     “I am saddened to say you are entirely accurate.” He appeared to hesitate before laying a thin hand on the boy’s equally thin shoulder. “I am sorry I did not know of you before this day, but I will not turn you away.” The boy scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked up at the patrician, who seemed unsure of how to continue (not that Vimes could blame him, watery child eyes could be a damn weapon at the best of times).

     “Why?” Sam found himself growling. “What kind of mother-”

     “One who is foolish, selfish, and cruel, I should think.” Vetinari murmured, still studying the boy.

     “But that doesn’t explain why she brought him here!” Vimes continued, anger rising. “Why does she think she can just-”

The calm voice of the patrician cut through his fledgling rant with the ease of a sabre through silk.

     “Because I am the only other who has the privilege of raising him.”

Vimes stumbled. Lindis’ eyes widened, he straightened slightly, alight with something horribly akin to hope.

     “What does that mean?” Vimes demanded. Vetinari turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow.

     “This is my son.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Just realised I misspelt Lindis as Lindin throughout this chapter! Whoops. All fixed now.

In a lot of ways, Vimes was a simple man. Cardboard-soled boots, lemonade at the pub, 6 o’clock readings to his son. And of course, calling for backup when trouble hit. In this instance, backup arrived in the form of his wife Sybil, who swept into the Oblong office with young Sam toddling alongside her holding one hand and a large bag in the other.

     “Havelock!” She greeted with a warm smile. “I came as soon as I could, though Sam’s message was a tad garbled.”

     “Yes, I fear Sir Samuel has had quite the shock.” Vetinari remarked dryly, glanced over at Vimes who was still slumped in one of the few seats in the office, gaping at the patrician and Lindis in equal measure. “Tea, Sybil?”

     “Thank you, I think I will.” She approached the desk as Vetinari moved to the tea set that Drumknott had provided earlier. It appeared that for the moment, matters of state had been put on hold, the patrician’s desk remarkably clear of papers and reports (not that she looked for any, Sybil was always more focused on her boys than city business), so she set her bag on it and began to rifle through it.

     “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sam, close your mouth before you catch flies.” Vimes gaped at his wife, who ignored him in favour of smiling at the skinny child next to him. “Lindis, yes?”

The boy flinched over his teacup. He nodded.

     “My name’s Sybil, I’m Samuel’s wife.” She held out her hand and after a flash of surprised panic crossed his face, the lad took it. Her hands, used to manual labour and wrestling with dragons as they were, nearly swallowed his. “And this is my son, Sam.”

Lindis ducked his head as Sam peered at him.

     “I thought you might like to play together while we have a chat.” A number of toys appeared from the bag, placed in a row on the desk. Young Sam perked up at the sight of them, he started bouncing when a felt dragon came into view.

     “A dragon! Mum, can I have the dragon, oh please, mum!”

     “You should ask Lindis, Sam. These are for him, after all.”

Lindis, who’d been trying to peek at the toys without seeming to actually look at them, jerked in shock. His mouth dropped open as if to protest, but his eyes widened, hopeful and hesitant at the same time.

     “But-” He squeaked, then flinched, silencing himself before he could continue.

     “Yes, dear?” Sybil pressed, focused on arranging the toys into a neater order. She was trying not to pressure him, Vimes realised. The kid would clam up with nothing more than a sharp look sent his way.

_Why?_

     “I - I haven’t done anything for them.” Lindis mumbled into his teacup, grip tightening on his large green book. It was Young Sam’s turn to gape at him.

     “You don’t need to do anything for toys!” He told the boy. “They’re toys!”

Lindis didn’t appear to have an answer to that, apparently as baffled as Young Sam was.

     “What’s your favourite, Lindis dear?” Sybil interjected gently. Lindis fidgeted on his seat a little, shrugging.

     “You don’t have a favourite toy?” Young Sam asked, peering at this strange kid next to his dad.

     “Mother said they were a distraction. Said they got in the way.” Lindis mumbled.

     “That’s rubbish.” Young Sam scoffed. Lindis flinched, his eyes darting about as if his mother could hear such an indictment.

     “Does this mean you’ve never played with toys before?” Sybil asked, moving back to fiddle with something in the bag. The watchman in Vimes recognised the leading questions, the gentle prodding, and he turned his gaze to his son, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Lindis shook his head.

Young Sam looked horrified.

     “But you’ve got to play with toys!” He told the boy. “They’re the best!”

Lindis didn’t seem to have an answer for that, although he mumbled something about his mother again. If Vimes ever met that woman…

The kid nearly dropped his cup in shock as a soft dog toy was thrust at him.

     “Come on!” Young Sam told him, waving the toy at him impatiently. “I’ll show you how to do it.”

Lindis stuttered out a couple of objections, but the combined forces of Sybil’s encouragement and a toy-focused Young Sam proved too much and he was half-dragged to the fireplace to enact an epic battle between dragon and hound.

Vetinari passed over Sybil’s tea as they watched them go.

     “He’s a tiny little thing.” She told him, almost disapprovingly. “Thinner than Mr Crumpetshorn was when he caught Shalescale. You’ll have to feed him up, Havelock.”

     “Indeed.” Havelock muttered.

     “Have you got a bedroom sorted out for him?” Sybil continued.

Vetinari hesitated, an event unusual enough to draw Vimes’ attention away from the kids.

     “The palace is not best suited for children.” The patrician told them, too low for the boys to overhear. Sybil and Sam shared a look.

     “You can’t send him away, Havelock. Whatever happened in his old home, you’re all that boy has now. He needs you to provide him with what they didn’t.”

Vetinari looked distinctly discomforted now.

     “I fear I am ill-equipped to care for a child.” He admitted, turning his face to the large windows behind his desk.

     “No one can look after a child alone.” Sybil soothed, patting his arm in a manner no one else would have dared. “But you have Sam and I to help-” Said Sam’s splutter was firmly ignored, “-We can set up playdates whenever you or he needs them. We can give you advice… really the hardest years are already over, a baby is more of a challenge than a young boy. Right, Sam?”

She glared at Sam’s horrified expression. _Help_ the Patrician? _Advise_ the sneaky bastard?

But then, Vetinari’s shoulders slumped. Ever so slightly, but for the patrician, it was as loud as a shout.

     “I will have to inform the city as some point. There will be a scandal, possibly objections.”

     “They can’t object to a damn kid.” Vimes found himself grunting.

     “But they can object to my siring one out of wedlock.” Vetinari mused, finally turning away from the city vista. Sam couldn’t dispute that, even the families in Dolly Sisters gossiped when one of their own ended up a single parent, he couldn’t imagine how the nobs would deal with this ammunition. His gaze flickered over to Sybil, who was sipping her tea, brow furrowed in thought.

     “The mother has no interest in the child?” She asked in hushed tones, low enough that it didn’t carry to the boys. Vetinari seemed to stiffen, eyes flashing cold and lips thinning as he pressed them together.

     “No.” He told her. “Apparently the boy has a sickly disposition. Her new son is ‘stronger’, so she decided to take her chances and… send Lindis to me.”

     “Leave him with you, you mean.” Vimes growled, thinking back to the lad’s tight grip on his hand. “The boy was practically dumped on the palace steps, nothing but a book and a damn letter.”

     “Book?” Sybil asked Vetinari.

     “Quirmian fairy tales and folk stories.” Vetinari informed her as he took his seat behind the desk and folded his spidery hands on the worktop. “I believe Lindis’s grandfather gifted it to him shortly before his death. It has great sentimental value.”

     “He was hugging it like a teddy bear.” Sam told his wife. Sybil smiled back.

     “Well, that’s good. You know he likes reading.” She sighed, shooting the boys a worried look as they played on the fireplace. Young Sam seemed to be making most of the noise. “Poor little mite.” Then she squared her shoulders and faced Vetinari again. “Now then. Do you have clothes for him?”

     “No.” The patrician admitted.

     “Bedroom?”

For the second time, possibly in his life, Sam Vimes watched Lord Vetinari hesitate in the face of his wife’s questioning glare.

     “I - can arrange for one to be readied.”

Sybil nodded, eyes firm.

     “Tutors will have to be contacted.” She continued. “Although he can share Young Sam’s lessons for now. I’d let him get used to his new home for a few days beforehand, poor dear needs to find his feet. And his voice. As for the rest of it, I can go shopping for everything he’ll need. That should keep suspicion away for a while, at least until you make the announcement.”

Lord Vetinari gave a small sigh and a nod. When Sybil got her mothering on, there was no arguing with her. That said, Sam thought as he glanced back at the kids and their stuffed toys, at least someone was taking the initiative.

     “Do you think he’ll be alright?” He asked Sybil as they descended the palace steps a short while later. Young Sam had reluctantly given up the dragon toy once they promised that Lindis could come over and play later.

Lindis had just looked dazed. Then again, that’s how Vimes often felt when he’d had to face down an excited Sam, armed with toys. He wasn’t sure whether it was the hour or so of Young Sam’s enthusiastic Dragon Fight game or the hug Young Sam subjected Lindis to when they were leaving that had the kid reeling, but they did receive a wave goodbye.

     “Lindis or Havelock?” Sybil replied.

     “Both.” Sam grunted, lifting his son into the coach.

     “I’m sure they will be.” Sybil told him as he helped her in. “It’ll take some adjustment but they’re both smart young men-” (Vimes snorted at this and was firmly ignored) “-and I’m sure they’ll be able to work out their problems.”

Sam just grunted in reply and settled back to mull over his thoughts as Young Sam rattled off all the happenings in his and Lindis' game.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young kids spell unfamiliar words the way they sound, rather than the way they’re written; if their first language isn’t English, they’ll use the spelling conventions of their mother language as well. Lindis’ first language is Quirmian (though he speaks without much of an accent, because his family spent so much time in Morporkian areas), so he defaults to Quirmian spelling when he tries to spell things.  
> Thanks for all your lovely comments and kudos! It really helps knowing there are people out there enjoying silly fluffiness as much as I do! =D

     “The packages from Lady Sybil have arrived, my lord.” Drumknott informed the patrician as he collected the last reports and letters and replaced them with more. “I placed them in Master Lindis’s room.”

     “Yourself, Drumknott?” Vetinari asked, frowning at the latest missive from Genua.

     “I felt it best that the fewer servants as possible should be involved.” His secretary admitted. “Gossip should be avoided if at all possible.”

Vetinari’s hum was approval enough.

     “Has he settled?”

After the Vimes’ had left, Vetinari had introduced his son to Drumknott and Wuffles properly and showed his about the office, Lindis’s room, _Vetinari’s_ room (including how to approach it properly so the boy wasn’t at risk of triggering any traps), and around the palace grounds. Afterwards, they had eaten dinner together and Lindis (still clutching his dog and book and looking thoroughly exhausted) had been put to bed. Not something Vetinari had ever thought he’d have to do, but old memories of his parents had guided him through it, despite the boy’s skittishness at being seen dressing for bed.

Vetinari had his suspicions as to why that was, but he’d let it lie for the time being. Lindis needed to trust in his safety here before any confidences should be forced. In the meantime, he had reached out to his Quirmian Dark Clerks with some very _specific_ orders.

     “I believe so, my lord.” Drumknott hesitated before continuing, as if he were afraid of breaking some type of trust. “He was hiding under the bed, sir. With his book and his dog.”

Vetinari’s eyes raised, staring off into the distance. Drumknott was only glad that they weren’t directed at himself; his lordship’s gaze could whittle granite to dust.

     “What did he say?”

     “Nothing, my lord, and I didn’t press the matter. He did come out to see the packages and helped me put them away. I - I left him writing a thank-you note to Lady Sybil.”

Vetinari raised his eyes, and an eyebrow, at that. Drumknott met his gaze firmly this time, raising his chin slightly with all the surety of a well-trained clerk.

     “Good manners must be observed, my lord. Besides, I thought the writing might… settle him somewhat.”

     “I see. Thank you, Drumknott.”

The clerk nodded and returned to his desk to continue his duties. Vetinari leaned back in his seat with the Genua letter, although he was barely concentrating on it, thinking… thinking…

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, slight knock on the door. Drumknott had barely looked up when it was opened from the other side by Mr Carding, head of the Dark Clerks.

     “Sorry to disturb you, my lord, but this young man was looking for Mr Drumknott.” He stepped aside to reveal Lindis, barefoot and shivering in his night clothes. He held up a letter.

     “I finished it, Mr Drumknott.”

Drumknott was on his feet at once, hustling around his desk to the boy.

     “Master Lindis, I specifically instructed you to ring the bell once you were done, you could easily catch cold.”

     “I didn’t want to be a bother-” Lindis’s mumble was cut off by the heavy door closing behind Drumknott, who left to usher the lad back to the warmth of his bed. Carding seemed rather amused by the whole thing, turning to flash a grin at his employer.

     “Well, I never thought of Mr Drumknott as the sort to fuss like that.”

     “Evidently Mr Drumknott is a man of many secrets.” Vetinari remarked wryly, laying the Genua letter down. Carding chuckled as he strode forward to stand before the desk.

     “Am I correct in assuming the lad is why I was summoned, my lord?”

The patrician leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of himself. Carding was a man perfectly suited to his current position; thorough in conducting his duties, intelligent enough to take initiative where necessary, and personable enough to know all of his people and assign them accordingly. The work gave him a suitable variety of challenges that he needed to prevent boredom, to the benefit of the whole city. After all, the last time he’d been bored, the Assassin’s Guild had been the victim of a number of ‘pranks’ and had been forced to close for a month before they managed to locate and disarm the last of his traps.

Carding had never been suspected by anyone but the patrician, and had shortly afterwards received his job offer from the palace. Now that he’d risen through the ranks, the Dark Clerks were more efficient (and effective) than ever before.

     “You are correct.” Vetinari replied.

     “He’s not Mr Drumknott’s nephew.” Carding guessed, taking a seat when Vetinari nodded to it. “Lad’s skinny enough to be, but the colouring’s wrong. Your man’s more reddish than that little chit.”

     “His relation to Mr Drumknott is irrelevant.” Vetinari told him, tone amused. “I would have introduced you earlier, but there’s no need to overwhelm him.”

Carding nodded.

     “The sheltered sort, in a way. His posture, his voice… doesn’t know what to do with himself around over people.” He threw the patrician a curious look. “I take it he’ll be under protection?”

     “Discreetly.” Vetinari confirmed. “He may explore the palace and its gardens but no further without my _explicit_ permission, as I’ve told him.”

     “What’s the boy’s name, my lord?”

     “Lindis.” Vetinari’s expressionless Look was enough that Carding decided against asking for the last name. “Background checks are unnecessary.”

Carding hesitated, but nodded. His brow furrowed as he began mulling over his people for this assignment.

     “Jones, Whitten, and Overmill would be suited to the surveillance job, sir, but if I could?” He waited for the patrician’s nod to continue. “I’d recommend having Tailor as his nanny.” Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Carding shrugged. “She’s fully qualified, took several jobs to support her family before she got the Guild scholarship. She’ll know how to look after him and I think she’ll be good for the lad.”

Vetinari hummed as he considered it.

     “Very well. Make the arrangements; we’ll see Ms Tailor after breakfast.”

Carding nodded and left, smiling at Drumknott as they passed in the doorway. The clerk approached and handed his master Lindis’s letter; he didn’t ask about the nature of the meeting with Mr Carding, Drumknott was aware that if he needed to know, he would.

     “His penmanship needs work, my lord, but I believe his grammar and spelling is remarkable for his age.”

Vetinari looked over the note as his secretary moved to prepare the next load of paperwork.

_Dear Lady_ ~~ _Sibil_~~ _, Sybil_  
_Thank you for all the clothes and toys. I have not ever had so many presents before and it is very kind of you to think of me._ ~~_Lord Vettinare_~~ ~~_Lord Vetenary_~~ ~~_The Patriqueann_~~ _Father told me that toys can have names, so I have named my dog Matthieu. I have not named the dragon yet, I thought Sam might want to because he liked it so much. Father showed me around the garden today and he said you have dragons like the one_ ~~_me and_~~ _Sam and I played with, and he said I might be able to see them if I ask._  
_Please thank Sam for showing me how to play with Matthieu and the dragon. This city is very strange and different from home, but I think I like it very much. I would like to see Sam again, if I may, so I can practice how to play some more._  
Yours ~~_cinqceerly_~~ ~~_sinseerly_~~ _faithfully,_  
_Lindis Michael_ ~~ _Cavise_~~

Back to the patrician, Drumknott missed the soft smile that crept onto his master’s face.


	4. Chapter 4

Lindis’s introduction to his minders went remarkably well - the boy was apparently more used to being watched by people who _weren’t_ related to him than anything else - and Lindis seemed to get a confidence boost from the presence of Tailor. In her mid 30s, Linnie Tailor was a warm faced, befreckled woman with a soft, encouraging voice, sharp senses, and surprising strength beneath lightweight clothes that allowed for quick movements and easily-covered stains. She also displayed an excellent sisterly demeanour that reassured the patrician more than Mr Carding’s recommendation.

According to her file, Tailor had dealt with people bothering her sisters using the “first and final warning” method1. He highly approved.

The fog had finally lifted and Lindis, apparently under the impression that she had just been hired, decided to show Miss Tailor the grounds. Vetinari hid a smile as the boy led her from the room by the hand, chattering about the ho-ho that he was forbidden from approaching without an adult.

Drumknott laid the latest post on his desk, along with a cup of tea. Vetinari steepled his hands before him and stared into the distance.

     “Drumknott, take note.” He didn’t have to glance to the side to know that the man already had his notepad and pen at the ready. It was time to let the city know of his heir.

***

Samuel Vimes listened to his wife read the letter they’d received from the palace that morning and glowered at his eggs.

     “What a lovely thank you note!” Sybil remarked, placing it carefully on the table. “What do you think, Sam?”

Young Sam frowned, giving the question a good think as he chewed his toast.

     “He’s a bit odd.” The lad admitted. “But I think he’s alright. An’ he’s right about practicing, like how dad used to make me practice walking. Can he come round soon?”

     “We can write back tonight, but I would give him a day or two to get settled, dear. It’s a big change, after all. Right, Samuel dear?”

Vimes looked up from stabbing at his bacon and blinked at his wife.

     “Huh?” Sybil gave him a Look. “I mean, yes, yes dear.”

They’d finished their meal before she was able to catch him without Young Sam. Vimes was in the hallway, shrugging on his coat to head to the yard when she appeared next to him.

     “Sam, dear… what’s wrong?”

Vimes hesitated. He didn’t know. He felt restless, angry in a way that didn’t usually happen outside of a case. He needed to pace the streets and think.

     “Just… thinking, love.” He muttered. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise.”

     “About Havelock’s little boy.” She pointed out, reaching out to do up the last of his buttons for him. Vimes glared at the wall opposite because dammit, she was right.

It just - it wasn’t _right_. He’d spent the whole evening last night staring at Young Sam until the boy had finally asked if there was something on his face, trying to imagine ever sending him away. Maybe if another dragon attacked, but even then, he’d damn well send Sybil too2. Here and now, Sybil watched him with those wide eyes, so filled with emotion and understanding, and _gods_ it was moments like these that reminded him of what a lucky bastard he was. He couldn’t help but lean in and kiss her.

     “I’m alright, I promise. I just need to get it out of my head.”

     “He’s safe, you know. There’s nowhere safer for him.”

Some part of Sam would always argue, on principle, that the vicinity of the patrician was probably the most dangerous place anyone could be. He stamped that down, though. She wasn’t _wrong_.

     “Yeah.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “I gotta go, love. Don’t want to be late.”

She kissed him goodbye and watched, a slight frown on her brow, as he dismissed the curricle and set off down the hill to the city on foot.

***

Commonly, Lord Vetinari rarely broke for lunch, choosing instead to peruse reports while he ate. Already, Lindis’s arrival had changed that habit; now, the desk was cleared of work and two trays were brought in, along with a chair for the lad to sit at the desk. It was a bizarre scene, seeing the tiny child babbling away about his morning while the patrician listened attentively,cutting as severe a figure against the windows as he always did. Drumknott’s lips twitched at the sight as he excused himself to eat with the rest of the staff in the kitchens3.

     “Miss Tailor said that - that the Ho-Ho was made by B-Bloody Stupid Johnson.” Lindis was saying as the door closed behind the secretary.

     “She is correct, he built a number of machines and architecture around the city and beyond.” Vetinari moved the boy’s juice closer, so he didn’t have to lean too far forward in his seat.

     “We saw a lake with one fish in it.4” Lindis told him. “It l-looked very cramped. I got to feed it and pet its head.”

     “Did you?”

     “Uh-huh.” Lindis nodded as he chewed on his apple slices. “Miss T-Tailor said it was built by the same man. Why did he make a lake so thin?”

     “I believe Master Johnson made the mistake of confusing his measurements quite frequently.” The boy frowned up at him.

     “He didn’t check his work?” The frown deepened as Vetinari shook his head slightly. “But when he made it he - he should’ve realised it didn’t look right. And why didn’t someone fix it? Or tell him?”

     “He was lauded as a genius. Genius cannot be corrected.”

Lindis gave him a severe look for a five-year old.

     “Everyone can be corrected. Everything can be corrected.”

Vetinari paused in taking a sip of tea. There was a ring of quotation around that remark, as if Lindis was echoing a teacher or…

He placed his cup back in its saucer and smiled at the child in front of him.

     “What are you planning to do this afternoon?”

Lindis hummed in thought as he finished his apples and took a thoughtful sip of juice.

     “Miss Tailor said I should nap. I ran around too much in the g-garden.”

Vetinari knew. He’d received the report of his son’s breathing difficulties from a Dark Clerk earlier in the day; the incident had passed quickly, the boy seemed to know how the symptoms and had explained to Tailor afterwards when it happened and that he just needed to relax and focus on breathing slow.

     “I have someone I’d like you to see. A doctor.”

Terror flashed across Lindis’s face. The boy jerked back so fast the tray clattered, the sound explosive in the still office.

     “I’m sorry!” He squeaked, curling into himself.

     “For what, Lindis?” Vetinari asked in a soft voice. The boy opened his mouth, looking lost and confused, eyes darting about.

     “I - I don’t know, but I - I’ll be better! I promise, I - I -” His breathes were coming quicker, stuttering, caught on something in his throat or chest. Another attack, Vetinari realised, frozen in his own chair. He wracked his memories for what his parents used to do when he was afraid, but he couldn’t remember a situation like this from his own childhood…

Unbidden, a memory of Samuel Vimes rose in his mind. An evening soiree at his and Sybil’s house, busy with other members of the elite but an event he couldn’t turn down, interrupted by the wail of their young son as he was woken by a nightmare. Vimes disappearing in a flash, thrusting his lemonade into the hands of Lady Selachii, who he was supposed to be talking to, and mortally offending her. As the hostess, Sybil had been unable to leave and she’d sent Vetinari to make sure everything was alright (and to drag Sam back). When he’d ventured to the boy’s bedroom, he’d frozen in the doorway.

Sam had his young son in his lap, cradled like the most delicate treasure and rocking back and forth, muttering reassurances as the boy sniffled and cried into his suit jacket.

Vetinari had retreated, unable to disrupt the pair.

Now, he found himself reaching out to his own child, shaking and blinking back tears where he sat. He was lifting the lad, sitting him in his lap and wrapping his arms around the small body. Lindis had gone stiff as a board, apparently shocked at the contact. They sat like that for a while, Vetinari rubbing the child’s back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Gradually, the tension faded from Lindis and the sniffles stopped.

     “You’ve done nothing wrong.” Vetinari told his son. “This isn’t a punishment, there has been nothing to punish. This is to help me, so I may understand how to help you, should you suffer another breathing problem.”

He didn’t expect a reply, and his hand stilled for a moment when the small, shaky voice reached him.

     “Mother sent me away because of what the doctors said. M-mother… didn’t want me.”

Vetinari leaned back and tilted the boy’s face up so he could meet Lindis’s eyes.

     “I am not she.”

Lindis’s bright, watery gaze flitted across his face, checking for deception. Vetinari could not recall a time when he had been more truthful.

His son nodded and leaned his face into his father’s chest. They sat like that for the rest of lunch.

* * *

1\. This method is unusual in that the ‘warning’ is in the form of a killing blow. Supporters of this method have explained that the killing blow acts as the first warning for _other_ people and the final warning for the perpetrator. It has the advantages of no repeat offenders.↩

2\. Not that she’d go if a second Noble Dragon _did_ turn up. He knew his wife well enough to know she’d be taking notes and getting in the thick of things, trying to protect the blasted thing even after everything that happened last time... but he’d send Young Sam with Carrot or Angua… even Detritus. Not alone though, never alone.↩

3\. A long standing arrangement that his lordship had encouraged at the start of his employment; no one gossiped like the staff and Drumknott was particularly adept at blending into the background. He couldn’t disappear like Vetinari could, he was just very easily overlooked.↩

4\. The Ornamental Trout Lake in the palace gardens is 150 yards long and 1 inch wide. Home to one trout, living comfortably provided that it doesn't try to turn around. In fact, the turning around bit involves having a man to do this job on behalf of the fish.↩


	5. Chapter 5

     “Thank you, Master Lindis.” Doctor Lawn said, tucking his stethoscope away and helping the boy do up his shirt. “I think that’s all for now.” He slipped the lad a hard-boiled sweet 1 with a wink and turned to pack his things away in his medical bag before addressing Lord Vetinari, who was looming in the corner.

     “Overall, he’s not in bad health, my lord. Strong bones, growing well, and nothing that could cause concern later on. That said, his lungs -”  
The doctor looked over to the boy in question. Lindis had hopped down from his bed and, after a moment’s pause to see if he was going to be told where to go, decided to wander over to where Wuffles had collapsed in front of the fireplace. He had retrieved his favourite book on the way and was slogging his way through reading the old dog a story in Quirmian.

Doctor Lawn moved away, so as not to disturb the pair before addressing the patrician again.

     “His lungs sound very bad.” He admitted in a low tone. “Almost congested, like they’re not drawing in enough air. I’ve seen this sort of thing among children before and, with what Master Lindis has told me about his bouts of breathlessness, it appears to be the same condition - severe asthma.”

     “Is there a cure?” Lord Vetinari asked softly. Doctor Lawn shook his head.

     “Not even in Klatch, my lord. Long term monitoring and treatment of the symptoms is the best we can do. Several colleagues of mine have… _ideas_ on how to treat it, but I do not recommend any of their treatments.”

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. Correctly interpreting it as a sign to elaborate, Lawn sighed and shook his head.

     “They recommend everything from ointments to injections to smoking cigarettes laced with belladonna. None of them have been proven to work in the least and I would never recommend that children undergo them.” They shared a silent moment of agreement. “The best you can do is avoid anything that causes an attack - incense, certain flowers, severe air pollution and the like - and make sure the boy doesn’t overexert himself when he’s playing. Though from the sound of it, Master Lindis is very aware of his condition and how to manage it. I’d need to check with the family, but from what he mentioned, his grandfather suffered from the same condition in his youth.”

The patrician nodded, humming thoughtfully.

     “Thank you, Doctor Lawn, you’ve been most helpful.”

The doctor nodded and headed for the door before pausing again.

     “You know, it is possible that he’ll grow out of it. I’ve seen several cases where asthma lessens as the children enter puberty… and if this is the case in his own family, I’d say he stands a good chance of the same. Still, if you’d like any of your staff trained to deal with asthma attacks, let me know and I’ll set up a seminar at the hospital.”

     “That would be best. Drumknott will be able to organise the details.”

A final nod and the doctor left with Drumknott, already muttering over available times and likely numbers of attendees. Lord Vetinari glided over to his son, still reading aloud to a dozing Wuffles. Lindis looked up with a gap-toothed smile as he reached him.

     “It’s been a long day.” Vetinari told him. “Perhaps you would like to rest for a while?”

Lindis mulled it over for a moment and nodded.

     “Miss Tailor usually lets me nap about now.”

As if on cue, the Dark Clerk in question materialised behind the patrician, beaming at Lindis.

     “Well then, I will see you at dinner. Sleep well.”

     “Oui, father.”

The patrician left smiling. Drumknott met him in the Oblong Office with a slip of paper. Vetinari read it and let out a small sigh.

     “The Chamber of Rats is being prepared, my lord.” Drumknott told him.

     “Very good, Drunknott, very good. Get the files we discussed last night.”

The files appeared on the desk before him. Each one titled with the names of the Heads of Ankh Morpork’s various Guilds. This time, Lord Vetinari’s smile was very small and very _sharp_.

     “Very good, Drunknott.”

***

     “Carrot!”

Captain Carrot poked his head into the office of Commander Vimes, jerked back out again to avoid a book that came hurtling through the air, and reappeared.

     “Sir?”

     “Where’s that bloody book?” Vimes snarled, digging through the shelves that lined one wall of his office, discarding unwanted items left and right like a particularly spiteful hurricane. “The one about family law, inheritance, that sort of thing? I saw it here just last week, I know it…”

Carrot cautiously edged into the room and stared about at the mess. The desk had been ransacked, various cupboards hung open, not even the area where his commander habitually paced had been spared from the carnage.

     “Why do you need that book, sir? A case?” He asked as he began to pick through the mess on the floor.

     “A question.” Vimes grunted, flicking through one tome before dropping it and starting on another. “Several questions. A bunch, really.”

They worked in silence for a moment, Carrot carefully combing through the discarded items and setting them aside in neat stacks 2, and Vimes replacing those sorted away with more books haphazardly tossed behind him. Finally Vimes made a sound of triumph and waded over to his desk, waving a heavy volume over his head.

     “Here we are! The latest one too, I knew they’d sent new editions to us recently.” He began combing through it, muttering to himself while Carrot began stuffing the rejected books back into (roughly) their original places. Eventually, he ambled over to Vimes and peered over his shoulder at the tiny writing.

     “What’re you looking up, sir?”

Vimes tapped his finger on a particular section. Carrot leaned in to read it.

     “Just brushing up on a few things, Captain.”

     “Sir - there’s, uh, there’s nothing wrong with - with you and Lady Sybil, is there?”

Vimes blinked up at Carrot’s worried expression.

     “What?” The Captain’s eyes flickered between his boss, the section of law, and back again, and Vimes could _see_ the concern growing as the seconds passed. Then it clicked. “Oh! No! Gods, no! This has nothing to do with us, Carrot, why’d you even think that?!”

Carrot practically sagged in relief.

     “Oh, good! Sorry sir, it’s just, well, you said there wasn’t a case and - I don’t know - I’m sorry sir, should’ve known better, I’m glad to hear it!”

Vimes shook his head at the man, muttering something under his breath before returning to frowning at the book.

     “Oh, that reminds me! Have you seen the papers, sir?”

     “No, why?”

     “They say Lord Vetinari’s got a son!”

     “Do they.” Vimes grunted.

     “Yes, sir! 4 years old, from Quirm!”

     “How interesting.”

     “The palace made the announcement last night, apparently.”

     “Fascinating.”

     “Everyone’s been talking about it, apparently the Guild Heads and Civic Leaders are going to the palace.”

     “Is that right.”

     “Yes, sir. I asked Queen Molly about it when I saw her this morning. Apparently they want to see the lad and talk to his lordship about the whole thing.”

     “That so.”

     “Queen Molly said she was going to show some support for the boy, because she said things like this happen and it’s no reason to try and oust Lord Vetinari or his son.”

     “Quite right.”

     “I don’t think they’ll really try and throw him out though, not over something like this. I mean, it doesn’t matter if his lordship has a son, what matters is how he’s looking after the city, right, sir?”

     “That’s - wait, _what?_ ”

Carrot, long used to his boss’s moods and attention-placing habits, gave him a very Patient Look.

     “The city council, sir. They’ve taken issue with the palace’s announcement.”

     “What the hell have they got to do with it?” Vimes snapped, drawing himself up. “It’s not the kid’s fault he’s got a bi-, I mean, a lousy mother!”

     “They’ve organised a meeting at the palace, sir. They’re going to question his lordship about the whole - ahem - affair.”

     “When?” Vimes growled.

     “Today, sir, in half an hour’s time.”

     “Right.” Vimes snarled, grabbing his helmet and slamming it on his head. “Right.” He grabbed his cloak and tugged it on before storming out the door. “ _Right._ ”

Captain Carrot followed, nodding to the various members of the Watch that he’d put on duty to replace them as soon as he’d heard the news.

* * *

1\. It is a well known fact among all medical professionals that even the most difficult of young patients respond well to bribery.↩

2\. Based on subject matter. Having never been trained as a librarian or clerk, Carrot was thankfully immune to the shock that would’ve rendered someone like Drumknott speechless, (or rendered Vimes unconscious, if the Librarian had come across the scene).↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My brother suffered from asthma when we were kids, so I'm very familiar with the signs and symptoms of a severe attack, including the feeling of helplessness that comes from watching it happen. There still is no cure for asthma, but my brother did indeed grow out of it when he hit puberty. Not sure why, but it happens.
> 
> The various cures Dr Lawn mentions are real, historical remedies and purported "cures" for asthma. Except that the belladonna cigarettes also had cannabis in them. I know I would not want to try them...


End file.
